The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone m-6

by George C. Chesbro

  Slycke frowned slightly. "Then it was Mr. Carling who suggested you look around?"

  "Yes. As I said, he was just trying-"

  "And you didn't demand to be shown the secure unit?"

  "Demand? I didn't even ask; I didn't even know you had a secure unit. I keep telling you; my only real interest is in being near my brother while he's sick."

  Slycke studied me with his watery eyes, apparently pondering my answer, then seemed to relax slightly. "Mr. Carling was a fool to take you into the secure unit. Marion Baker hears voices that tell him to kill dwarfs."

  "Obviously, Mr. Carling wasn't aware of that."

  "Ignorance of the danger is no excuse for foolishly exposing you to it. Can you imagine the explaining I'd have to do if Baker had harmed you?"

  "I can take care of myself, Dr. Slycke, thank you very much," I said evenly. "Besides, what difference does it make? My being there was my responsibility, not yours. No regulations were broken; it's my understanding that the ID badge I'm wearing gives me unlimited access to all areas of the clinic."

  It had been the wrong thing to say; Slycke straightened up in his chair, and his round face grew dark. "Are you going to tell me what your rights are in this facility?"

  "It's the furthest thing from my mind, Doctor," I replied quietly.

  "I run this clinic!"

  "Most assuredly, Doctor. I didn't mean to offend you. I just want to look after my brother and mind my own business."

  "Is that what you thought you were doing when you accepted an invitation from a nurse to wander around a secret facility? Did you think you were minding your own business?"

  Charles Slycke was beginning to try my patience, which could be in short supply even under the best of circumstances. I was perfectly willing to offer obeisance to him just so that he wouldn't be distracted from thinking about my brother, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that nothing I could say to him was going to make any difference-and I couldn't help but wonder why.

  "Why don't you tell me what's really on your mind, Dr. Slycke? You've been on my case since the moment I walked in here. Do you have a thing about dwarfs, too?"

  The psychiatrist leaned back in his swivel chair, narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest, and raised his chin slightly. "Were you sent here to spy on me?"

  I shook my head slightly. "Come again?"

  "Our previous conversation leads me to believe that your hearing is perfectly all right."

  "Who the hell would send me to spy on you?"

  "That senile old man in the Pentagon that the president sees fit to keep on as Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency," Slycke said in a tight voice that trembled slightly.

  "You're referring to Mr. Lippitt?"

  "Of course I'm referring to Mr. Lippitt!" Slycke snapped. "Did he send you here to spy on me?!"

  "You have got to be kidding."

  "Answer me!"

  Anger welled in me, and I struggled to control it. I looked down at the backs of my hands and took a series of deep breaths before again looking up at the florid-faced man sitting behind the desk. "I'm not a spy for anybody, Slycke," I said quietly. "If you and Mr. Lippitt have some kind of personal feud going on, that's your business. I want no part of it."

  "The man is incompetent! He's too old for that job!"

  "In your opinion."

  "What did he say about me?!"

  "He didn't say anything about you; in fact, he never even mentioned your name. He had Garth transferred here because-and he said this-he considers this the best facility of its kind. It seems to me that the obvious ill will is all on your part."

  "Oh? And is that why he sent a man who isn't even a D.I.A. employee to a secret D.I.A. facility?!"

  "Now you're being disingenuous, Doctor. You know perfectly well why Garth is here-to care for him, yes, but also to keep whatever is learned from his experience with NPPD safely under wraps within the intelligence community."

  "Yes, but that doesn't explain why you come as part of the package. What are you doing here?"

  "Garth is my brother, for Christ's sake."

  "Being a relative of a patient doesn't entitle you to a Z-13 identity badge. This procedure is absolutely unprecedented, and it's an unacceptable breach of security."

  "Whoa. There's been no breach of security, and there won't be-at least not on my part. Now, you may consider me a security risk, but Mr. Lippitt obviously doesn't think I am. He personally signed this badge, which makes me his responsibility, not yours. So maybe you should just get on with your business, which is healing, and let Mr. Lippitt worry about whether or not I'm a security risk."

  "But why should he give you such privileges and. . authority?"

  "Are you suggesting that either Mr. Lippitt or I would take advantage of my brother's condition just to spy on you?" I snapped, no longer even making an effort to contain my anger. "Maybe you think we poisoned him in order to sneak me in here? If Mr. Lippitt wanted to spy on you, don't you think-as senile and incompetent as you may believe him to be-he could have thought of a subtler way of doing it than sending me here? If you'll pardon a momentary lapse in good manners and taste, I'm telling you that's insane."

  Surprisingly, my angry outburst seemed to have a calming effect on the other man. Slycke blinked slowly, then seemed to slump slightly in his chair. "I'm saying you have no business carrying a Z-13 pass, because you have no official business here. Is it any wonder I'm suspicious?"

  "Garth is my official business, Doctor."

  "You're a college professor. How can you spend all this time away from your classes?"

  "I resigned."

  "What are you living on while you spend all your time hanging around here?"

  "That's none of your business, Slycke," I replied curtly. "This is how I choose to spend my time until my brother gets well."

  "Your brother may never get well."

  "Thanks a lot, Doctor; you've got a great bedside manner."

  "I've heard rumors that you and your brother have a close personal relationship with Mr. Lippitt."

  "That's also none of your business."

  "You're a licensed private investigator!" Slycke was getting himself worked up again.

  "So what?"

  "A licensed private investigator, carrying a Z-13 badge, here under the auspices of a man who may well bear a personal grudge against me!"

  "If Mr. Lippitt bore a personal grudge against you, Dr. Slycke, he wouldn't have sent me to tell you about it."

  But Slycke wasn't listening to anything but the voices of his own paranoia. "I expressly advised against appointing that man Director, and I was overruled. Imagine; the man is demoted to no more than a security guard position in some godforsaken place in Nebraska. The facility he's responsible for gets blown up, he disappears for a year, and when he surfaces he's appointed Director of the agency. It's inconceivable!"

  Valhalla again. Siegmund Loge and his minions were continuing to haunt me, his legacy hanging like a poisonous mist even over this mental hospital in Rockland County. It would be interesting to see what Slycke's reaction would be if he knew what Lippitt had been up to during that year-but I wasn't about to tell him. "I don't know anything about that, Doctor," I said tightly, "and my guess is that Mr. Lippitt couldn't care less about your opinion of him; Garth is here because Mr. Lippitt thinks highly of you and your facility. You're looking for enemies where there aren't any; they must have a term for that in psychiatry."

  "I run this clinic, Frederickson, not Mr. Lippitt! This is a medical facility, and I have the final say here!"

  "I've tried to be polite to you, Slycke," I said evenly, getting to my feet. "Obviously, simple professional courtesy and good manners aren't high on your list of priorities. I don't owe you explanations about anything, and I resent having to expend physical and emotional energy defending myself to you when my brother lies sick in bed here. I repeat; you have nothing to worry about from me, I'm not spying on you or anybody else, and my only concern i
s in seeing that my brother gets the best possible medical care. It's definitely not in Garth's or my interests to have you, or any other member of the staff here, distracted and looking over your shoulders because of me. So please stop doing it."

  Slycke sprang to his feet, and his hands began to tremble. "Are you suggesting that personal considerations could cause me to provide anything less than the best possible care for a patient?!"

  "I'm suggesting that you stop losing sleep over me and my ID badge, and I'm suggesting that you get off my back and get on with your business. Mr. Lippitt seems to think you're a pretty good psychiatrist, and I'll go along with his judgment. For now."

  "For now?"

  "Your hearing is no worse than mine."

  "There really is no alternative care for your brother, Frederickson, considering the circumstances and cause of his condition."

  "You say. If that's true, then we're stuck with each other, aren't we? I'm not about to stop visiting my brother just because you've got a problem with me."

  Slycke dropped his gaze, absently patted his hair, sat back down again. "Look, Frederickson-"

  "You look, Slycke. What you think of Mr. Lippitt and me is your business, but I take it as a serious personal insult for you to imply that I might use a desperately sick brother as an excuse to spy on you. Now, as far as the facility here is concerned, you do run it. I'm sorry I wandered somewhere you preferred I didn't go. From now on I will personally make it a point to notify you when I enter the building, and again when I leave; if you're not around, I'll leave a note taped to your door. In the meantime, I intend to proceed as if this conversation had never taken place. I will certainly try to stay out of your way, but I will also expect to be kept fully informed of any treatment prescribed for my brother, as well as his progress-or lack of it. That's my right as a close relative, not someone with a Z-13 badge. Good day."

  Slycke started to say something, but I was in no mood to listen to any more of his nonsense; I wheeled and stalked out of the office, slamming the door behind me. I was definitely not pleased with the man in charge of Garth's medical treatment. I wanted to call Mr. Lippitt to complain, or at least ask him to try to assuage Slycke's anxieties, but knew I wouldn't. Slycke, I thought, was probably right; he and the D.I.A. clinic were probably the only game in town, and getting our ancient friend to intervene personally in this unexpected conflict might not only be construed as inappropriate, but could well prove counterproductive-after a phone call from Lippitt, Slycke's paranoia index would end up topping the charts. Charles Slycke was my problem. I would try solving it by doing as I had promised; I would stay out of his way, and hope that he focused his attention where it belonged, on finding wherever it was Garth's mind had gone, and returning it to him.

  5

  I was highly agitated when I left Building 26, but on reflection I decided that Charles Slycke was probably no more paranoid than a lot of other high-ranking civil service bureaucrats, jealous of-and constantly feeling compelled to defend-their turf. In retrospect, I could see that Mr. Lippitt had probably used poor judgment in issuing me a high-powered Z-13 ID badge, but he had erred out of compassion, total trust, and friendship. There was just no way to describe to the overexcited head psychiatrist the nature of the strong bonds that existed between Lippitt, Garth, and me, a relationship that had begun many years before, in New York City, in connection with a bizarre case I was working on, and which had culminated in the horror and death of the Valhalla Project. In any case, I believed I had made my point with Slycke that I was going to be close by at all times, and expected to be consulted at all stages of Garth's treatment, whatever that treatment might be. Now I thought it might be a good idea to lie low for a while.

  That meant I was going to have to find a way to keep myself occupied, off the streets and out of trouble, when I wasn't visiting Garth. To that end, I walked four blocks, turned left, walked down a hill and crossed a large field next to the reservoir to the locked entrance of the Rockland Children's Psychiatric Center, rang the bell.

  If at first glance I seemed an unlikely candidate to work as a substitute teacher-a pesky and most trying endeavor in the best of schools with the mellowest of student bodies-in a psychiatric hospital where half the population was unpredictable and dangerous, the educational director, a pleasant and attractive but obviously tough woman by the name of Gladys Jacubowicz, didn't show it; she was simply delighted to find somebody-anybody-who was willing to work as a substitute in her school. I didn't mention my Z-13 badge, which I had put in my pocket; I did tell her I had a Ph.D. and had done a good deal of college teaching. I was hurriedly signed on. She personally took me on an orientation tour, and as she was unlocking the door to let me out asked somewhat tentatively if I could possibly come in the next day to substitute for a social studies teacher who was taking a day of personal leave. I said I would be delighted to come in.

  "My name's Frederickson," I said to the seven high-school age students and one huge, black, stony-faced cottage worker who sat in wooden desks, staring at me.

  "Who let you in here, shorty?"

  I had arrived at the school ninety minutes early in order to familiarize myself with the teacher's class lists and lesson plans, check out the appropriate patient files, and read the "cottage sheet"-a record of disturbances and other incidents that had taken place in the cottages during the night which the teachers should be aware of. If information is a weapon, which it most decidedly is, I was loaded for bear.

  The heavyset boy with the pockmarked face and hooded eyes who had spoken would be Dane Potter.

  Dane Potter, now a few months shy of eighteen years of age, had, with his parents' consent, enlisted in the Marines at the age of sixteen as an alternative to being sent away to reform school. In the Marines he had gotten into drugs, finally fried his brains with angel dust, then gone over the edge-and the hill; he'd deserted, taking his semiautomatic rifle along with him. He'd paused in his travels long enough to hold up a service station, then tried to call his girl friend in order to tell her he was on the way home. He hadn't much liked it when he found out she was on a date with another boy, and he'd proceeded to shoot up the station. He'd been put into a Detention for Youth facility-"kiddie jail"-and then transferred to RCPC when, as his file phrased it, he had begun to display "bizarre behavior"; he'd tried to rape his social worker. He'd been diagnosed schizophrenic with a personality disorder-one of the most dangerous kinds of psychotics. For the past week he had been extremely prone to violence, in school and down in his cottage, and was now heavily medicated, with enough Thorazine in him to give a rhinoceros the staggers; his muddy brown eyes were glassy, saucer-wide beneath their heavy lids. Also, he had been placed on a "level one," which meant that he had to be accompanied at all times by a male staff member who could never be more than an arm's length away from him. The big man nestled in the desk next to the boy wasn't there to give me moral support, help me maintain class decorum, or help me with anything else; he was there for the sole purpose of pouncing on Dane Potter if the boy went berserk, to prevent him from hurting himself or others. As far as teaching was concerned, I was on my own.

  It seemed it was time to try earning my spurs.

  "I like to be called Mr. Shorty, Potter," I said evenly, thrusting my hands into my pockets and smiling at him. "Always be polite; courtesy costs nothing, and you never know when it will pay off."

  "How the hell do you know who I am?"

  "I'm psychic; that's why they let me in here."

  "What did you do to your head? Somebody mistake you for a football?"

  "My clipper slipped while I was cutting my toenails."

  "Fuck you, shorty."

  "Thank you very much, Dane. Fuck you, too."

  That got a laugh out of the others in the class, which I was beginning to sense was on my side. However, the way I figured it, I was being paid to try to reach and teach all the kids who came into my classroom, not just the ones who didn't give me any trouble. Dane Potter had lobbed a
few verbal darts at me, and found that I wasn't that easy a target to hit. Now he was really cranky. I knew hospital procedure, and knew that nobody was likely to play patty-cake with Dane Potter-least of all the burly cottage worker assigned to accompany him throughout the school day. If Potter exploded, which he now seemed very close to doing, he'd be perfunctorily taken down and dragged off to the crisis room-a small, windowless room not much bigger than a closet, where Potter would be restrained until he either calmed down or had to be given a shot and sent back to his cottage to sleep it off. All I had to do was goad him a bit more and he would be gone and out of my hair; but that wouldn't solve my long-range problem with him, assuming I was invited back, and it wouldn't make me feel very good to know I had taken the easy way out of a situation by manipulating a very sick kid. Something else was called for.

  "Why the hell do they send us a dwarf teacher?!" a now very distraught Dane Potter shouted.

  "Hey, Dane," I said quietly, casually moving across the room to lean against a radiator running beneath a bank of thick, Plexiglas windows, "maybe it's because I'm a crazy dwarf. I actually want to be here teaching you crazy kids. That must make me crazy, right?"

  That got another round of appreciative laughter from the other six kids-and just the trace of a smile from the cottage worker.

  "Right on, Frederickson," a pretty girl with ugly, puckered scars on her wrists called from the back of the room. "Come on, Dane, give the guy a break. He seems okay."

  "Shut up, bitch, or I'll give you a break!" Dane Potter shouted at the girl who had spoken. His fists clenched and unclenched on top of his desk. "And I'll break this fucking dwarf if I ever get the chance!"

  It was time to get Dane Potter's attention-and the attention of all the other Dane Potters I was certain to meet at the children's hospital. If I couldn't do that, I thought, I might as well quit; the somewhat less than refined teaching technique I planned to employ might well get me fired, but I didn't intend to quit.